Healed to Death (Or, Liz and Booker's Grand American Road Trip)
by Incidental Vegan Cannibal
Summary: Booker is newly sober and struggling to pay off a debt he owes the mob. When a doctor offers him fifty grand to bring a girl with a rare blood disorder to New York, he jumps. Enter Liz Comstock, the internet-savvy vegetarian who carries her entire library in her pocket. She invades his brain like a Kesha song and dominates his dreams like a math test he hasn't studied for.


"For unto us a child is given!" The booming voice crackled through the old television's speakers. "And that child shall save God's people from the flood of cancer; from the flood of heart disease; from the flood of diabetes and AIDS and every other pestilence. All the Lord asks for in exchange is that you give Him what already belongs to Him, what He has loaned you to test you with. Are you more selfish than that poor widow who gave her all? All Jehovah asks for is obedience! Will you obey, child of God? Will you obey and be healed?"

Booker glanced at the waiting room television with distaste, wishing he could turn it off without drawing attention to himself. Good old Reverend Comstock's faith-healing farce was always good for a laugh, but Booker didn't feel much like laughing while his head was in the job. Anyway, how gullible did someone have to be to send their money to that phony? Booker had seen better acting and special effects on infomercials. Since most of the folks getting swindled seemed to be little old ladies, Booker figured Comstock had earned a special seat in hell. That was assuming hell existed, of course. Whatever the case, Booker was probably better off with the fermented grape juice than the fresh stuff with a thousand other people's backwash.

_There's that Stinkin' Drinkin' Thinkin',_ he thought. _Better knock it off. Can't afford to hit the bottle and fuck up this job._

A red-haired woman in white scrubs and a blue pair of glasses walked past Booker, kicking over his empty Styrofoam coffee cup. That was the sign. He rose casually from his chair, dropping his ancient magazine on the stack of even older ones. Time to get to work. He strode toward the empty elevator, sticking his hands in his pockets. As the metal door slid shut with him inside, he produced a stolen keycard from his pocket. He punched the button for the 13th floor and waved the card in front of the black panel. The elevator shifted smoothly upward.

When the door slid open again, Booker stepped out into some kind of airlock. Masks and white vinyl suits lined one wall, while signs posted everywhere warned that this was a "level 6 isolation ward" and that the patient was highly contagious. Airborne pathogens, the sign said. Booker scoffed to cover his nervousness. His employer had assured him at least ten times that the target couldn't actually get anyone sick by breathing on them. Sure, the girl had a blood disease that was so rare that she was the only known carrier, but as long as Booker didn't gulp down her nosebleeds or anything, he'd be fine. Or so the story went.

He ignored the ominous sign and waved his keycard in front of another black panel. The glass door slid open. Booker stepped inside the isolation unit and forced himself to take a deep breath. The unit was about the size of a hotel room, albeit a very white and drab one. The rugs, stuffed animals, and paintings of birds and eiffel towers did little to hide the clinical atmosphere. Booker had seen prisons that were more cheerful.

A door creaked open, and a petite, college-aged brunette stepped out of the bathroom. Her brown hair was dripping patterns onto her white hospital robe, and her glasses were foggy around the edges. She was staring intently at a cell phone protected by a purple case with a flying bird on the back.

"Ma'am," Booker greeted her.

The young woman's head snapped up and she gave him a horrified look. "What are you doing?!" she demanded. "Are you crazy? Didn't you see those signs? You can't be in here without a mask and suit! Do you have a death wish?"

Booker shifted his weight between his feet. "I'm just here to transport you elsewhere, ma'am."

"Where?"

"A specialist in New York," Booker said. "Seems your original doctor got a few things wrong, and this doctor in the Big Apple wants to take a look at you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Aren't you Elizabeth Comstock? Don't tell me you're her twin or something."

She folded her arms. "No, I'm Prisoner Number 24601."

Booker stared blankly at her and then cleared his throat. "Well, if that's the case, are you really gonna turn down a free trip to New York? You could be free."

She hesitated. "I'm contagious. And I can't be exposed to the sun."

"You're not contagious, Miss Comstock. Not unless someone's drinking your blood, and I got no intention of doing that. As for the sun issue, I got my car fixed up to keep the UV rays off you. Maybe after we get you cured in New York, we can set you up on a flight to Europe. You ever been to Paris?"

She stared at him for two heartbeats, and then she suddenly turned and started throwing things into her robe pockets. She tossed her phone and three pill bottles in, followed by a tiny, worn-out terrycloth bluebird. The last thing she grabbed was a small tablet off her nightstand.

"Let's go!" she said, slipping her hand into his. "Come on, let's go right now!"

Booker didn't have to be told twice, especially not since the alarm picked that exact moment to start screeching.


End file.
